


Revenge

by Im_writing_out_of_time



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, Excessive Violence, Knives, Thoughts of death, depictions of rape, low key drinking, nonconsent, revenge rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 04:07:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11432823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Im_writing_out_of_time/pseuds/Im_writing_out_of_time
Summary: Hamilton, working after hours as usual, is raped by a man claiming revenge for Hamilton winning at Yorktown.





	Revenge

The door opened slowly behind him, but Alexander never looked up. He was used to people coming in and out of the office and he had become accustomed to blocking them out. He dipped his quill in the ink and continued to write. He had been working all morning and some man walking into his office wasn't going to slow him down. He was vaguely aware of the man rustling through a wooden crate behind him, the sound of papers brushing against the crate. 

His candle flickered on the desk and the damp ink on the parchment glowed in the dim light. Most of the other men had gone home, the man behind him seemly the only other one in the building. The sound of his quill scratching across the parchment filled the room alongside the rustling of papers. Hamilton rolled his eyes; the filing system was pretty simple, how imbecile does one have to be to not figure it out. _Jefferson_ , of all men, could figure it out. He huffed a sigh and continued to scratch at the paper, dipping his quill in the ink well from time to time. 

He barely lifted his head as the man's presence became even more prominent behind him. "Is there something I can help you with?" He asked, not once turning to look at the man. 

"Yes. There is." 

Before he react, Hamilton was pushed, face down on his desk. He could feel his words being stamped on his cheek, he could hear the inkwell tipping and spilling. The black ink was lost in his hair, the dark colors mixing beneath the soft glow of the candlelight. 

He tried to think of his war training; at this point anything would help. He brought his elbow back, trying for the man's core, missing him by a mile as his hand was twisted and pinned against his back. His body pushed backwards, only for the man to grab a knife from his pocket and trace it along the arch of Hamilton's brow. 

The candlelight sparkled in the silver of the blade. The knife tip trailed from Hamilton's eyebrow, back to his ear, across his neck, and shredded his clothes as the knife was pressed to his back. He screamed for help, knowing no one would hear him, knowing the office had been empty for hours. The knife was finally pressed into his skin, causing him to scream in pain, rather than in fear. 

"You are be quiet, or you will not make it home to your family. Or should I say your whore of a wife? Is that child she's carrying even yours?" 

"My wife is one of the most pure women to walk the earth. She is much different than a common whore." Alexander spat as his heart thudded in his chest, blood rushed through his ears. He could feel the knife swiping at his trousers. Tears slid down his face as the thought of what was about to happen. The blade swiped against the back of his thighs and he whimpered, the blood trailing down his legs. He had to stay quiet for his love, so they would be safe. He had to stay silent so he could return home. He would near speak of this to anyone. No one would know how the usually-belligerent Alexander Hamilton was taken advantage of in his office, how he was caught off guard. 

"Do you know why I'm doing this Hamilton?" Alexander could hear the sneer in his voice as he asked the question. His voice was rough, familiar, but overall it didn't stand out from any other man's voice. 

"You aren't getting enough from your wife?" God damn his snarky mouth. Couldn't he stay quiet for once in his life? That time, he was expecting the knife marking his skin. He deserved it. 

That didn't stop him from crying out in pain. 

"No, you immigrant bastard. You ruined my career. I was supposed to be a general during the war, but you made General Washington give you the post instead. That fame at Yorktown was supposed to be mine, and you stole it from me. And now here you are, right in the lap of the president himself. That should have been me!" He was practically shouting by the end of his spiel, spit flying from his mouth left and right.

"I have not the faintest indication of who you are," Hamilton rasped as a hand wrapped around his throat. 

"No one does," the man whispered in his ear. "But you will always remember me, Alexander." 

A searing pain shot through Alexander, starting in his posterior and rapidly working its way through his core. His breathing was raspy, a large hand around his throat. Fabric was tied hastily around his wrists, but tightly, and his face was pushed back against the desk, smudging more of the writing. Ink dripped from his dark hair, trailing down his forehead, blood pooling down his thighs as he was degraded by a man he had never met. 

The knife dug into his skin, the blade ripping down his sides, the cuts shallow enough to not need medical help, but deep enough to bleed like a stuck hog. Hamilton was growing more and more tired, not bothering to fight, thinking that he deserved this for some reason, for more than the reasons he was given by his attacker. For the first time since coming to America, Alexander Hamilton was silent. He was broken. 

The knife ripped through him, down his side, his back, his legs, and he wished for death. How could he go home and face Eliza anymore, knowing that he was no longer pure? 

He welcomed the moment the man released him, untied him, and threw him to the ground. The shredded strips of clothing had completely fallen from his body and what was left hardly covered him anymore. The green fabric fell in strips around his body, the only thing really covering his body being his socks and shoes. 

He was shaking on the floor. The cold wood of the floorboards chilled his body. His lips were beginning to tinge blue from the cold and a red blush filled his cheeks, bright against his paling skin. The candle glowed on his desk, his room filled with an ambient glow. His body was shaking not only from fear, but shivering from the cool dampness of the night settling in. He had planned to go home when the fire went out, and now, there was nothing but dying embers glowing orange beneath a layer of soot in the fireplace, but he couldn't move. 

He waited for the cold to bring death, prayed for the moment when he would stop breathing, when his heart would stop beating. He could not sleep, the events of the night reeling through his mind. He felt emotionally numb, the tears streaming down his face. His entire body ached and he was bleeding everywhere. He pleaded for death, yet it would not come. 

Even as the sun shone over his battered body, he wished for death. The office would be bustling soon. His wife would be searching for him, wondering why he had not come home last night. He pulled himself behind the desk in the middle of the room, shielding himself from the door. He could hear people walking out in the hall. He was dreading the moment when someone would push through the doors looking for him. 

It was sooner than he had hoped when someone knocked. "Hamilton." Washington's voice fluttered through the door. He pushed the door open, looking around confused. Alexander was glad his desk reached the floor. He was hoping his general would walk back out of the room, but as the rest of the night, his wishes went unheard. 

Washington strode into the room, a pile of papers in his hand. He saw the mess made on Hamilton's desk and frowned. His quill was on the floor, his ink well tipped, the stack of clean parchment stained with the spilled ink. The floor was covered in dried blood. The dark red contrasted the light wood. He stepped forward. The letter Alexander was working on was smudged. The ink hadn't had time to dry before it was smudged. Another step forward and Washington could see green fabric past the edge of the desk, his Treasury Secretary passed out in a pool of his own blood. Washington rushed around the front of the desk and grabbed Hamilton's shoulders, shaking him. 

"Just leave me here to die," he whispered, not opening his eyes. "Let me die, sir."

Washington set Hamilton down and rushed to the door. "Mister Jefferson," he called, a harshness to his voice. "Hamilton's office. _Now_." 

Thomas strode there confidently. "I didn't do anything, Mister President. I don't know what Hamilton is telling you." 

"Get in here," he ordered, and Thomas walked in the door. Immediately he saw the blood on the floor. 

"Where's Alexander?" His voice was full of brassy arrogance as he asked. Where was the small, annoying man? 

"Behind the desk," Washington said, nodding his head. 

Thomas stepped behind the desk to see Alexander in a pool of ink and blood. The light had left his eyes, words were smeared across his face in his own handwriting. His pale skin was poking through the scraps of green, his skin covered in red patches, bruises a deep purple. "Hamilton," he paused, examining the sight in front of him. "Who did this to you?" He reached his hand toward Alexander, trying to grab his hand, but Alexander flinched away, slapping Jefferson away from him. The sound of skin on skin resounded through the room. 

"Don't touch me," he spat. His bottom jaw quivered and his body shook. "Don't act like you care. I'm disgusting and dirty. Just leave me alone. Just let me die." His eyes were dull, the dark circles beneath them contrasting his pale skin. His eyes were half closed from shame, fatigue drooping them even farther. He cast his eyes to the floor where the red tinge of blood was beginning to mix with a drop of ink. The red and black swirled together, the black drop darkening the already deep red. 

Jefferson shrugged off his long magenta coat and draped it over Alexander's body. The magenta fabric was soft against Alexander's naked skin and he curled into the coat, basking in the warmth. He could hear someone fumbling with the fireplace on the side of the room and eventually a calming warmth spread through the room. Alexander stay still on the floor, his body pressed flush against the desk. 

Fatigue overtook his body and his eyes fluttered shut. His eyelashes were long, delicate, and they brushed against his flushed cheeks. His mouth was open slightly, heavy breathing coming out in pants. As his breathing slowed, and soft snores began to escape, Washington pulled the chair away from the desk and began to clean the mess. He threw stained papers in a box, grabbing his handkerchief and mopping up the spilled ink that had not yet dried. 

He kept an eye on Hamilton, making sure he was still breathing, wanting to help him, but not wanting him to freak out at physical contact. Thomas was on his hands and knees, a one time thing obviously, cleaning the floor of fresh blood. He was only cleaning because his superior was cleaning. There was a slight knock at the door. 

"Alexander?" A soft voice drifted through the door and it was pushed open to reveal the swinging skirts of Eliza. She stepped in the room, one hand resting on her rounded figure, the other flying up to cover her mouth, shielding a gasp. She stared wide-eyed at the president and his Secretary of State cleaning blood from her husband's belongings. Her chest heaved as she watched Thomas Jefferson mopping up blood from the floor. 

"Mrs Hamilton," he spoke softly. "I assure you this is not what it looks like." 

"Where's Alexander?" Her voice was barely audible, her whispers terrified. "Where is he?" Her eyes were fluttering open and closed rapidly, her body starting to go into shock as she sank into a clean chair against the office wall. 

"He's- he was attacked last night Mrs Hamilton. He wouldn't want you to see him like he is. Please, go home, or go to your sister's and we'll bring him home later. We promise. Please, Mrs Hamilton." Washington's voice was soft, his tone tinged with sadness. His eyebrows were knitted up, bringing a concerned look to his face. He wiped the ink off his hands and onto his trousers before holding his hand out to her. Her hand didn't move, so he grabbed her hand. "He'll be okay, he's just sleeping it off. We'll bring him home when he wakes up. Don't worry about Alexander. He's okay. Worrying is bad for the baby." 

He pulled her up to stand by her hand and led her out the door, helping her into the carriage. He strode to the carriage driver who sat proudly atop his post. "Good day, Mister President. How can I be of assistance for you today?"

"I want you to bring Mrs Hamilton to her sister's for the afternoon and do not bring her back until I, or Mister Jefferson, send for her. Understand?" 

"Yes, Mister President, sir. I understand."

"And don't allow her to walk to the house alone. You must escort her to and from the house." His voice was hard, his face like stone, to ensure the driver was listening. 

"Yes, Mister President. I won't leave Mrs Hamilton's side. You have my honor." He dipped his head in respect. 

"Good. Now go. We will send for Mrs Hamilton later."

The driver bowed his head once more before slapping the reins against the horses' backs. The carriage lurched forward and George watched it disappear down the road, dust rising as the carriage disappeared in the distance, before he walked back into the building. 

He stepped into Alexander's office and walked around the desk to see Alexander awake, sitting up, his back pressed tightly against the desk. His eyes were dull, staring at nothing. His brown eyes were lacking their usual luster. His knees were drawn to his chest. Jefferson's magenta coat was draped over his legs, hiding the exposed skin from his ripped pants. Jefferson had cleaned the majority of the floor and was tidying up the desk. 

"Hello, Alexander." Nothing. He continued to stare into space, hardly blinking. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I have nothing to talk about. I deserved what I got, sir. That is all."

George knelt beside Alexander, who flinched away immediately, his eyes cast down, eyelids drooping, knees pulling in closer to himself. The normally loud, argumentative man was doing anything he could to make himself subservient. "Alexander, look at me, _now_." His head turned slowly to look at his superior. His cheek was still covered in his handwriting. His hair was pasted across his cheek and forehead with ink. "Who did this to you?"

"I do not know, sir. I never saw his face, I did not know his voice. He mentioned you, sir. He said he deserved the glory I received from Yorktown. He was around Mister Jefferson's stature, and fair skinned." There were tears flowing freely down his cheeks and he was sobbing. His body was shaking and his arms wrapped around his knees. His eyes opened in realization as he sat up, his legs dropping to the floor. "He knows about Eliza," he whispered, more terrified about her being in danger than himself. "He knows that she's expecting. Oh god." He stumbled to his feet, using his desk for leverage. "I have to- to get to her. I have to make sure she's okay." He stood up, his clothes falling against his body. Jefferson grimaced as he saw the shape Alexander's body was in. And he saw all of it. 

Washington took Thomas's coat and swung it over Hamilton's shoulders in an attempt to cover him in any way possible. "I sent her to her sister's house. She's okay, Alexander. Just sit down. Please." 

Alexander slumped into his desk chair. "Everything hurts," he whispered. "I want to go home."

"We can do that," said George. "Come, Alexander. I'll bring you home. Thomas, I will return with your jacket later."

"Sir, Mister Hamilton can return it at his earliest convenience. But I should offer my assistance in bringing him home." 

George looked at him thoughtfully. "Yes, that could be beneficial. Alexander, Thomas and I shall bring you home and get you situated."

"Yes sir," Alexander whispered. His voice seemed to only have that one volume, a drastic contrast to his normally loud tone. "Thank you sir." 

Thomas leaned over and buttoned his jacket around Alexander. "I shall assume you are too independent to have us carry you out, so let us make it look like you still have your pride as well. Stand up." 

Alexander stood, using his desk to hold himself up as Thomas walked behind him, ensuring the jacket kept him covered. Seeing it swing low past Alexander's thighs, Thomas took post at his left side. The cuts adorning his legs were still visible, as were the bruises on his face, but he looked as put together as he was going to, considering the circumstances. Washington took post on Alexander's right side, and the three men walked slowly through the office, the other men watching them intently. 

Alexander walked slowly, limping, his entire body aching and screaming with every step. But he held his head high. His superior and opposing secretary had already seen him broken, but the other men in the office need not see him as Washington and Jefferson had. He walked, ink dripping from his hair, blood still drying on his body. His right foot caught the other and he stumbled into Jefferson, who pushed him back in place. The curly-haired buffoon actually looked genuinely concerned, his eyebrows furrowed up. 

Alexander offered a slight smile in thanks as they strode through the door to Washington's personal carriage. His legs were shaking from exertion and blood loss and his head was spinning before he knew it, they were in front of his manor. "Thank you sirs for bringing me home. Mister Jefferson, I shall have someone wash your jacket and return it to you in time." He stepped away from the carriage, pushing to close the door when Washington pushed his hand in the way. 

"Alexander, will you be okay?"

"Yes, sir. I am okay. I am only a little pained." 

Washington nodded his head. " I am glad that you are okay. I wish I could have prevented what happened, Alexander."

Alexander nodded slowly. "I wish he would have killed me, sir." He pushed the carriage door closed and limped to the house, immediately stumbling on the the foyer floor as he trudged to his office. A glass sat on his desk and a glass bottle of spirits sat in his bottom drawer. He hated drinking, as it clouded his mind, but that was just what he wanted right now. He pushed the glass aside and pushed the bottle to his lips, swallowing the alcohol that ran like fire down his throat. "I wish he would have killed me."

**Author's Note:**

> Stalk me on tumblr
> 
> @im-writing-out-of-time


End file.
